


In The Dark

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Desperation, Fear, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:06:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal, alone and trapped, is desperately trying to find a way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Beta credit, as always, goes to Treon.

 

 

     The very first thing that Neal sensed was the stygian darkness. There was absolutely no ambient light that he could discern, and no sound at all. He knew that he was lying on his back, but he had no idea where he was at present, or how he had gotten here. He took thorough stock of his body and realized that nothing hurt, so that was a fact that he put in the plus column. Cautiously, he slid his arms out to either side, but encountered nothingness. The same was true when he raised his arms slowly above him. So, his first terror that he may have been entombed in a box somewhere slowly receded into the background of his psyche. “You’ve got too vivid an imagination, Caffrey,” he scolded himself. “This is not an Edgar Allan Poe or Stephen King story.” He needed to get a grip and think this through.

     Slowly and carefully, Neal turned over and assumed a position on his hands and knees. It would not be a good idea to stand fully upright and take steps when he didn’t know what dangers his environment was hiding in the inky blackness. He tried to make out what kind of surface was under him. Uncharacteristically, he simply couldn’t get his mind to wrap around what he was feeling. His brain just wouldn’t compute any textures or outlines so he couldn’t differentiate if it was asphalt, tile, wood or even the dirt floor of a cave. A thought surfaced, and he shivered; maybe he had been drugged and that’s why his normally keen deductive process wouldn’t jump-start.

     Cautiously, he began to crawl forward, or at least in a direction. Maybe he was going towards something, or maybe distancing himself from something. How could he know? He tried to call out, but his dry throat just refused to allow any sound to emerge. Every few feet that he didn’t tumble into an unforeseen abyss, he stopped and reached out his arms again in an attempt to touch something. His current dwelling seemed to have no walls, no boundaries that he could find. It seemed ironic, almost funny somehow, that he would have felt more secure if he knew the parameters of his prison. It would be comforting to know exactly how far he could go. Where had that thought come from?

     Doggedly, Neal inched along. This certainly wasn’t the first time that he had found himself in a really dark place. He recalled slinking through the Italian catacombs in the dead of night with a packet of Greco-Roman coins taped securely to his chest. But at least those ancient burial grounds had a ceiling and walls that he could see with the aid of his high-powered flashlight, and there were definite pathways that he could navigate with the use of his compass and the detailed map that Mozzie had provided. And where was Mozzie exactly? But then Neal had to admit to himself that his cohort in crime often didn’t tend to stick around if things got dicey.

     Neal put those thoughts aside and returned to his current problem. This dark predicament was a whole other dilemma. Damn it, he needed to be able to see! Sight was the most important asset for a conman. A really good confidence man needed to be able to study his prey, and catalogue the mark’s tells through facial expressions and body language. He needed sight for recon, and to make detailed plans on paper that could be studied well in advance of a job. He needed his eyes to figure out alternative escape routes on the fly, to calculate the distance of a leap from one rooftop to another, or how far the ground was below him. In that instance, vision would certainly provide information that was helpful in the prevention of broken bones.

     Then an extraneous notion popped into Neal’s head. He would need his eyesight because he was an artist -- he painted images that his brain translated from what his eyes took in. How could he have forgotten that? Even though he didn’t suspect that he had been injured, something was definitely wrong with his thought processes. And he was so very tired, and, if truth be told, really freaked out right now. So, Neal slid down and let himself drift off, just for a little while, he reasoned…just for a little while.

     Eventually, a wake-sleep cycle seemed to evolve, but, of course, Neal had lost any sense of time so he had no idea of the duration of either one. Had he been in this hellhole for hours or days? He continued his arduous trek, and every once in a while he tried again to call out, but a pitiful moan was the only sound that issued from his lips. But once, just once, he almost formed a word... “Petr?”

     It was as if a new neural pathway had somehow opened in his brain because Neal slowly began to remember. Peter was his partner. He worked with Peter Burke as a consultant for the FBI. He had brokered the deal himself when Peter had arrested him the second time, and had put a tracking anklet on him. Relief swelled in Neal’s chest. Peter would find him; he always had, and now the tracking anklet would make his job that much easier. Neal almost cried, however, when he ascertained that his electronic monitoring device was not in its usual spot on his left ankle. In despair, he began a soft keening, eventually sinking into the oblivious nether realm of sleep.

     Awareness eventually returned again. To fight off feelings of desolation and fear, Neal was determined to examine his past memories, because he just couldn’t face his future. He thought of Peter, and forced himself to picture Peter’s face as vividly as possible, and all of the man’s various expressions. It calmed him somehow.

     Neal began with the expression that Peter wore when he was perplexed by some sort of puzzle, be it a baffling case or the enigma that was his partner. Yes, Peter was always trying to figure Neal out so that he could stay one step ahead. Their mind games were legendary in the annals of the FBI’s history book. Neal loved putting that look on Peter’s face; it was almost as much fun as the frustrated one that carved deep furrows in Peter’s brow. Neal credited himself with being the impetus behind that look during the three years that Peter had initially chased his exasperating nemesis.

     Then there was the narrow-eyed squint. Neal had been on the receiving end of that one time and time again. It conveyed, “I don’t believe a word that’s coming out of your mouth. Convince me otherwise or the shit is going to hit the fan big time.” Neal tried, he really did, to avoid those confrontations, but he had to admit that sometimes he deserved Peter’s suspicion. Neal had no difficulty now remembering all the bumps in the road in their troubled past.

     He recalled his clandestine search for Kate right under Peter’s nose. And that was just the beginning. Time and again, he had pulled off one caper after another. He had stolen paintings, forged other ones, broken into a foreign consulate and appropriated a Russian artifact, stolen gold coins and even helped to conceal a whole treasure trove of illicit Nazi war booty. The list went on and on, all during the time that he was supposed to be helping Peter. Nevertheless, sin after sin, Peter forgave him, and granted him yet another chance at redeeming himself. Even Neal didn’t think he was worth Peter’s benevolence, but he did so crave the expression on Peter’s face when he was pleased and proud of Neal.

     The warmth in Peter’s eyes, and his easy smile when he felt that his partner had done a good job, was like an elixir that Neal needed to keep himself whole and healthy. So many people in his life had simply walked away without a backwards glance. Neal had begun to accept this as his destiny -- he was of no value to anyone. Peter changed all of that, and it’s what made Neal admit to himself that he loved the man who filled all the insecure voids in his existence. Now Neal had to face the fact that he might never see Peter or anyone ever again. He might die here alone in this chasm of darkness. Maybe nobody would ever find his body or be able to mourn his passing.

     Allowing fatigue and anguish to overwhelm him, Neal finally sunk down, rolled onto his back and was on the verge of just giving up. He closed his eyes, although he wasn’t sure why he bothered because darkness was darkness after all. He supposed that he could pray -- promise to be a better person if God helped him out of this mess. But Neal thought that was really hypocritical. His whole life he had ignored a supreme being, while breaking almost every commandment in the book. If he were in God’s shoes, he would tell Neal Caffrey to go take a hike. “If you didn’t acknowledge Me before, don’t come crawling to Me now promising something that you are probably incapable of fulfilling.” Neal agreed that God would certainly have been justified in cutting him loose.

     So, instead of praying to God, Neal simply sent prayers to all the people in his life whom he had hurt or wronged, and hoped in some way they knew he was sorry. He pictured Kate and his mother and Ellen, and hoped that they knew that he had loved them. Then he slowed and evened out his labored breathing, letting the darkness caress him. It was almost a living thing at this point for Neal, a slick tangible blanket of ebony that slid over him, engulfed him, and, strangely enough, now felt comforting. He was done fighting and simply embraced it.

     He was sliding deeper down into oblivion when his ears picked up a sound. The loss of one sense seemed to have made the remaining ones more acute. It sounded like a voice, but he couldn’t determine its direction. But one thing that he could make out was that the voice seemed insistent and harsh; it demanded his attention. He concentrated as hard as he could, and was overjoyed to determine that it was Peter’s voice, even if his words were strident in tone. He sounded really angry. “Damn it, Neal! Don’t you do this to me! You come back right now!”

     Then Neal thought that he heard the shriek of sirens in the distance. Whatever he had done to get Peter so riled up must have been really terrible if reinforcements were on the way. Why did Neal always have to screw up and hurt those that he cared about? But at least Peter was near, and Neal would do his part to help in his own rescue. He would face the music of Peter’s wrath later. With a concerted effort, he pushed the darkness away, got back on his hands and knees, and started the lonely journey once again. Peter was out there somewhere. He would find Neal as he always had.

     After more cycles of crawling and resting, Neal began to distrust his senses. Maybe Peter’s voice was just a hallucination that his mind had conjured up. Perhaps his brain was continuing to play tricks on him now because he perceived that the blackness surrounding him was less opaque. He didn’t let himself hope, not anymore.

     Sometime later, Neal could make out a pinpoint of light in the distance, which seemed to grow in size and intensity the closer he got to it. Was he really finally finding a way out of this hell? Then Neal shuddered when he considered the possibility that this phenomena was simply the result of random synapses in his brain firing one last time -- a harbinger of impending death! He decided, once and for all, that he didn’t want to die—not yet, not like this. With a renewed burst of energy that he wrung from his very soul because his body’s reserves were all but exhausted, he pushed on. He was getting closer and closer to what seemed like the end of his journey, but found that the ethereal glow almost overwhelmed him. At first, he just squinted his eyes, but then had to close them entirely against the brilliance. When he did manage to open them again, he found himself staring into a pair of very haggard and bloodshot brown ones. Peter rewarded Neal with that warm, fond expression that the young man lived for, and Neal detected a world of relief and happiness in those eyes. When he took in his surroundings, he realized that he was in a hospital bed connected to various machines amidst a tangle of wires and tubes. He looked back at Peter with a question in his expression.

     “You were shot during the takedown at the warehouse, Neal. It was touch and go for a while, and we almost lost you once. I didn’t think that you were going to make it back,” Peter quietly explained.

     “I remember hearing you yell at me, Peter. You sounded really mad,” Neal said softly.

     Peter looked sheepish for a moment. “I **_was_** angry, Neal, because I was so scared that you were leaving us. I was scared and angry that you were trying to slip away to some place that I couldn’t go. At one point, when they were working to save you, it seemed as if you were giving up the fight, and I may have yelled.” Peter gave Neal a lopsided grin and added, “I’ve spent too many years molding you into the perfect partner to let you escape that easily. So don’t even think about trying!”

     Neal smiled back at his partner, and then just allowed himself to bask in that fond Peter expression that he loved and craved. Now he wasn’t lost in the dark anymore.


End file.
